


what do you know of my heart

by museme87



Series: jonrya prompt fills [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Book Spoilers, Cousin Incest, Episode Fix-it, F/M, Gen, Multi, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Prompt Fic, R plus L equals J, Reunion Fic, S7 Spoilers, Smut, Starkcest, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-12 12:34:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11737140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museme87/pseuds/museme87
Summary: A collection of Jonrya-focused drabbles/ficlets/one-shots. Tags added as needed with each chapter.1. Jonrya Reunion (GOT-verse)2. Jon misses Arya's smile3. Jon and Gendry meet and discuss Arya (GOT-verse, 7x05 Fix-it)4. Jon finds out Arya is alive (GOT-verse, 7x05 Fix-it)5. Jon discovers Arya is pregnant





	1. When He Sees You

**Author's Note:**

> This first fic is based on the following prompt I received on tumblr:  
> JONRYA REUNION following what’s happening rn in the show <3
> 
> Obviously follows more show!canon than book!canon given the prompt, but a major book line pops up. Also, I suppose it can be read as Gen if you want it to, but it's definitely meant to hint at budding romantic feelings between the two.

She wakes covered in a sheen of sweat. The chill in her room—once so familiar, now penetrating bone deep—nips at her damp flesh, and Arya shivers. Her hand slips beneath her pillow, fingers folding around the hilt of a Valyrian steel dagger. Eyes shut, and her breath comes out as a shudder. Worlds collide—Braavos and Winterfell—where waifs chase her through dark crypts as she runs towards her father’s voice.

At the sound of horse hooves, of men’s shouts from the yard announcing the arrival of the king, the cold seizes Arya’s heart, nearly stopping it. Numb legs take her to the window of her room that looks below to the yard. The torches light the grounds, and Arya watches one man among several dismount. She feels a pull in her belly, a force drawing her to him, and her nerves begin to fray.

_Jon._

He is a man grown now. From what she can see of him, he looks every inch a king. He is her brother, the very reason she is at Winterfell; she had longed for him. Yet as the moment of their reunion draws nearer, she feels the years between them acutely, like the prick of a dagger on her breast.

 _Jon will want me, even if no one else does_.

She remembers thinking that so long ago.

 _When he sees_ you _his heart will probably stop_.

Arya fears it all. What if she had been wrong? What if Sansa had been wrong? What if too much time had passed and Jon no longer thought of his wild little sister—his  _deadly_  little sister? What if he couldn’t forgive her the blood on her hands? The mud and the breeches?

What if he no longer  _wanted_  her?

The thought brings pressure beneath her eyes, into her nose, and Arya feels the tell-tale prickle of tears coming on. Sansa and Bran had received her warmly, yes. But they were not  _Jon_ , who was so often her life’s blood as a child. His arms had dried her tears. His smile set her heart alight. She felt a beauty beneath his warm eyes.  _Jon_  mattered in ways she could not explain.

Arya watches him join an older man, their shoulders near touching and heads bent as if deep in conversation. Her legs are as heavy as stone, and she is not  _ready_. But she is struck so suddenly by need, despite her terror, that her feet move as if of their own volition. Arya does not bother with a cloak nor with shoes; she simply  _runs_.

The corridors are blurs to her as she weaves her way through Winterfell. Her frantic heart beats. She knows not where he intends to go, and she can hear nothing over her pulse racing in her ears. But she trusts. Winterfell is their place; she has always been able to find him here. Arya hopes against all that time has not changed that too.

And it has not. She stops short of where two corridors meet when her eyes catch sight of him and the other man. There is a deep pang within her chest, and she is frozen there. She catches pieces of his conversation, about Northern lords and going Beyond the Wall. Arya opens her mouth to call to him, but there is only silence from her. She feels as if she might split in half if he does not stop for her now because surely it is a sign from the Old Gods and the New that they are not what they once were. Arya holds her breath.

He sees her.

He must catch her from the corner of his eye because he is slow to turn towards her. There is curiosity on his face first, and then Arya watches as his expression falls and his eyes widen as if in wonder. Jon stops as she had, and they are mere yards from one another. His lips part, and she swallows hard. It is bitter cold in only her socks and shift here in the North at the beginning of Winter, yet warmth pools in her belly. He tilts his face just so. His shoulders sag, and he looks so very vulnerable.

“Arya?”

It’s a hoarse whisper, one that barely reaches her. It causes her to frown with heavy emotion. He  _remembers_. He has not forgotten her. Arya tries to fight off the tears she feels welling in her eyes because she is not a little girl any longer, but Jon looks half overcome himself and she simply  _can’t_.

Jon is the first to move, but Arya is quick to run to him. She jumps into his arms, and he winds them around her so tightly that the lives they’ve lived apart from one another seem no longer insurmountable. Arya buries her nose into his neck, takes in the smell of his sweat and horse and stink. He cups her neck. She wishes she could somehow be  _closer_  because it is not  _enough_. Arya presses her lips to his warm skin. It is a long kiss, tender and hidden from others’ eyes by his hair. Jon turns his head, and she feels him smile against her cheek. That, and the snot and salty wetness from his poorly held off tears.

“I’ve missed you,” she says against his skin.

“Welcome home, little sister.”

Her heart skips a beat. In the silence that follows, as he keeps her pressed against him, she feels safe and loved and  _whole._


	2. the north remembers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for mirealona/devonnicas via tumblr: 
> 
> 93: “I like it when you smile.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this 'verse, Jon is still betrayed by his brothers and murdered, but he remains Lord Commander after his resurrection. Feel free to assume the Five Year Age Gap played out so that these two are older. I have no real ideas about the events leading up to the ficlet, so you're welcome to make them up as you read. 
> 
> Mirealona/devonnicas, I hope this is close enough to the prompt even if it doesn't include the line verbatim!

With a heavy sigh, Jon puts down a piece of parchment reporting the current contents of the Night’s Watch stores. He had never been particularly good with sums, but he need not be to know that they did not have enough to make it long into Winter. He wishes for counsel from men who had served the Watch longer than he has, who had weathered winters and come out stronger for it—men like Lord Commander Mormont or Maester Aemon. He misses Sam, who would no doubt be able to find him books on the matter no sooner than he requested it of him. Fleetingly Jon thinks of his father; Ned Stark had taught him much of lordship, but he had been a greenboy back then who had not listened as closely as he might have. Then Jon remembers the men who _are_ here with him now—his brothers—and thinks to call upon the stewards once again on the morrow for their wisdom on such matters.

After stretching to ease the aching muscles of his back, Jon reaches for a stack of letters to reread and draft his responses. He no sooner unfolds one when the door of his chamber opens and his sister slips through, shutting it behind her.

Arya has not long been with him at the Wall. Though her arrival had been a spark amidst the cold, Jon cannot say he is glad to have her here among the men. She had refused him when he had offered her lodgings in Mole’s Town. He did not _want_ to part from her, but he caught the Brothers leering at her as many do when any woman steps foot in Castle Black. That Arya had somehow bloomed into a beauty in the years they had been lost to one another only added to his worry for her. His fears did not abate after she beat a man bloody for touching her waist, and Jon begins to think that nothing will ease this sickness in his stomach. Though she has proven she can handle herself, Jon still feels responsible for her though he will never say so to her face.

“Did you enjoy yourself?”

She looks up at him from where she unlaces her boots, having already discarded her cloak on a nearby chair. Her gaze stirs something inside of him, something that Jon is none too proud of.

“Some. Your men must know every song in the Seven Kingdoms about bedding wenches. I think they mean to make me slick and hungry.”

“Arya…”

It should not surprise him, the way she talks. She’s been around the small folk of Westeros and beyond by her telling. Once not long ago she had even admitted to him that she’d begun training as a courtesan, but he had stopped her. Jon had not wanted to know how far that had gone. Before, he might have attributed it to her being his little sister; now, he thinks it more jealousy.

The way she moves around him sets him on edge. There is a heaviness between them, thick with unspoken want. Oh, they have acted on it for certain. An emotional reunion spun into frantic need behind closed doors. He saw himself in her, laid bare. Her lady mother may have had a chance to tame her back then with time and patience, but Arya has been gifted to the wild now by Old and New Gods alike. Shame may roil in her belly when they touch, but Jon thinks she no longer cares. Much and more has been taken from them both, and Arya will not bear it any longer. She had started by taking him back. Though he had begged his vows, her eyes— _their_ eyes, the same gray of the North—pleaded with him until he could not tell her no.

Jon does not stop her as she climbs onto him in his chair. Her look troubles him as she settles onto his lap. Once he would have known what ailed her as if he too had suffered it. Questions plague him— _what happened to you out there, little sister? Tell it to me true as you always have_. Jon does not ask though, not yet. Instead, he strokes her pale cheek with his thumb before he brings it to her plump, lower lip.

“I miss your smile.”

It occurs to him too late that he should not say such a thing, that it might make her feel as if he only wants his little sister back. While he longs to see her lips pull upward in joy, he will take whatever Arya has been given him. During his time Beyond the Wall, he had thought he would never see her again. That she is here with him and warm beneath his skin is a greater gift than he could ever have asked for.  

Arya presses her lips against the pad of this thumb, then opens her mouth to capture it between her teeth. She gives a little squeeze before releasing him, and Jon’s heart skips as one corner of her mouth twitches upward.

“I only bite now.”

They say he is a somber, brooding man, but it’s not so when he is with Arya. The feel of her teeth lingering on his skin makes him grin. The Arya of his childhood always claimed to be a wolf, acted the part, and had even bitten Robb once when he’d attempted to return her to Septa Mordane at his lady mother’s behest. Her playfulness now reminds him of then.

Perhaps his smile encourages her. Perhaps it reminds her too of better, unburdened days. Jon does not quite know what it stirs in her, but she leans down to capture his lips. It is hard and urgent, and the heat between her legs brings his own urgency to bear on him. His lip is soon caught between her teeth, and she is none too gentle this time.

_Little wolf._

She- _wolf._

 _Gods how you’ve grown_.

As he rises from the chair, her legs wrap around him, her lips and teeth still greedy. A fleeting thought reminds him that there _should_ be great shame in this. He should feel disgust instead of the painful hardness tight in his breeches. He might have, once, if it had not been for time, for distance, for death itself. Their reunion ought to be an impossible thing, yet they are in one another’s arms. That first time, it had not been close enough, not with the clothes between them. They had both needed more, not flesh against flesh, but joined together as one. The Gods had treated them cruelly, had stripped them of nearly everything.

 _You owe us your forgiveness in this_ , Jon thinks as he lays Arya on his bed. _The North remembers, and_ this _debt you will pay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I was a little nervous posting this since I wasn't in the same zone writing this one as I was writing the first ficlet in the collection. I hope it lives up to the love you all were heaping on me yesterday! Your kind comments and prompts inspire! <3


	3. bastards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for joyjuhee who asked for Jon and Gendry meeting and discussing Arya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Falls within GOT-verse. Spoilery for 7x05 "Eastwatch," and complies with GOT canon enough that I think it can be read as a missing scene from the episode. 
> 
> My loyalties fall squarely into Jonrya territory, but you can read this as gen or Gendrya if you must. ;)

Jon watches the men below loading dragonglass into the boats that will take them North. _Soon_ , he thinks. He has spent too long on Dragonstone, though each day had brought them closer to a fighting chance in this war. His heart aches for home. For Sansa and Bran. For _Arya_. There is much and more he must do before he can see them again, and that knowledge is another knife to the heart. Jon tells himself he does this for them. He mislikes this crown of his—the Seven know he did not _want_ this—and longs for the day when he might cast it off for his trueborn brother, Robb’s rightful heir.

Somewhere along the Gift there is an abandoned home that waits for him when his watch and reign have ended. Something small and inconspicuous where he might live out the rest of his days as his own man. Briefly, his thoughts wander to Arya; he would ask her to join him in that house. He would make sure Bran would not deny her that before he relinquished his control of the North. Though many years had separated them, Jon does not think Arya would appreciate a royal life. He would buy her freedom with his crown. After everything, Arya deserved to be her own woman too.

“Your Grace?”

He turns to find Gendry approaching, the boy who had named himself Robert Baratheon’s bastard not hours before. Jon thinks it strange that he would cross paths with King Robert’s bastard now, that he would fight side-by-side with him as their fathers had years before—the bastard sons of great men trying to save Westeros together. The singers would find poetry in that.

“Gendry.”

Something about the way the young man holds himself gives Jon pause. He watches at Gendry squints a bit as if mulling something over. Gendry opens his mouth, shuts it again, and hesitates. It comes as a surprise to Jon; Gendry had been unabashed and forthcoming only a while ago. That he struggled to find himself now when he so clearly had something to say to Jon puzzled Jon to no end.

“You’re welcome to speak freely,” Jon adds.

“I don’t know how to say this, m’lord— _your grace_ —I don’t know what’s happened since…” Gendry exhales deeply. “I knew your sister.”

“Sansa?”

“No, _Arya_.”

As soon as Gendry speaks of her, his heart falters and insides twist up enough to sicken him. Jon feels the time and distance between them acutely and wants nothing more than to reunite with her. To hug her. To hold her. To call her little sister. That Gendry had spent time with her during that void makes Jon feel something akin to jealousy. It was foolish—that a person could steal time away from another—but he recognizes it for what it is all the same.

“We met on the road north to join the Night’s Watch after your lord father died. Eventually we split up. I don’t know what’s happened to her. We was friends though, and I thought…well, I thought you ought to know she made it out of King’s Landing alive.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

“If _anyone_ can survive out there, it’s _Arya_.”

Jon smiles softly. He knows little of Gendry, but if Gendry understands what a fighter Arya is then they must have been close on their journey together. It troubles him, yes. Because _he_ could not be there for her. Because _this man_ had to protect her in his stead. Jon wonders what their bond may have been. Gendry is a comely young man; perhaps Arya had admired him. Mayhaps Gendry had been able to see her beauty beneath the dirt just as well as he had years before. But Jon does not linger long over the thought, perhaps only because he can’t quite bear the idea of Arya admiring someone other than himself.

“I’ve just received a raven. She’s recently returned to Winterfell.”

Gendry seems relieved to hear it, his eyes widening briefly and nodding proudly. Jon recognizes that pride because he had felt it too, that and so much more when he’d received word of her safe return. Arya always had a way about her, making friends of the most unlikely people. She had touched Gendry’s life somehow, and it’s evidence of the great debt Jon realizes he owes Gendry.

“A friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine,” Jon says, clapping Gendry on the shoulder. “I know nothing of your travels, but I thank you for looking out for her. I owe you a great deal for that, and I’m afraid I may never be able to return the favor. But you will always have friends in Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Your Grace. Thing is, she more often looked after me.”

“Aye, that she does,” Jon says, small grin on his lips.

It would be good to see her again.


	4. i thought arya was dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fix-it fic for the scene in 7x05 where Jon discovers Arya is alive. What D&D wrote was unacceptable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I played around a little with the scenario and lines from the episode, but I mostly did my own thing. 
> 
> Mirealona, I think this fic addresses part of your prompt where you asked for a fic where Jon finds out Arya is alive and leaves for home.

The roll of parchment feels heavy in his hands, heavier than the eyes upon him around the great table. Jon knows not what tidings it brings, but he trusts that Sansa would not have sent word if it had not been serious. Tentatively he moves his thumb beneath hard, gray wax, freeing its hold on the paper. With great care he unrolls it, revealing Sansa’s neat script. His eyes trace the string of letters together, but they falter not long after he begins.

_Bran arrived home not a week ago. Arya returned not long after. Both seem well._

He knows his letters of course. He can read the words—Bran and Arya and returned and well. Yet it can’t be so, those words together. Bran is _dead_. Arya went missing _years_ ago. There is no way that they could have _survived_ all this time. If they had, it means he had given up on them. He had not looked when he should have. He may be forgiven for Bran because the odds of someone who could not walk escaping Winterfell, living in the wilds, were not good. Maybe if Bran had had help, certainly. But Jon could not have known.

But _Arya_.

 _He_ should have known. Gods forgive him, he should have _known_. No one knew—no one _understood_ —Arya like he had. Of course, she would find a way to survive. Arya was wild, more at home in the Godswood than dressed in silks at a great feast. If she had died like they all presumed, he would have _felt_ it even far Beyond the Wall.

But he had been a fool. He had not trusted her to do whatever needed to be done to survive. He had left her out there when he should have sent men and ravens across the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei Lannister may not have been able to find her, but he would have. He knew his little sister like he knew himself.

Would she ever forgive him?

His throat tightens then. His jaw clenches. His burnt hand shakes with tremors, and Jon does not know how to stop feeling like this, like a hole now exists where his heart once was. And he has no business being a king; all eyes are on him, and Jon feels himself coming undone like no king should outside the privacy of his chambers.

To save face—because his family’s lives depend on _this_ —he turns his back to the Dragon Queen and her council. His hand finds the stone above the fireplace, his eyes the fire itself. He sucks in a breath, though it fails to ease the tightening of his chest, and releases it with a shudder. His vision blurs, his eyelashes dampen. He will allow himself three counts to find himself again.

In those three moments, Jon remembers the smell of dirt in Arya’s hair. They would play games by the fire when they were children, and she would throw herself around his neck whenever fortune favored him, scattering tiles across the floor. Always caught off guard, he would roll to the floor from her weight on his chest, the room filling with happy laughter. She would tuck her head beneath his chin, and Jon would move just so to breathe in her smell—never pretty like Sansa, never clean or flowery. Arya smelled of earth, of rainwater, of dog and wolf. Jon wonders if she still does.

He wonders how she’s grown. Wonders if she still has her needle. If she’s well as Sansa reports. If she will be pleased to see him after he had so greatly failed her. Will she smile at him? Will she call him big brother? Will he ever hold her in his arms again?

Jon knows what he must do. The dead march south, and he has put Arya between them when he should be her shield. Even if she will not forgive him, Jon will not let harm come to her. Or Bran, or Sansa. The North needs him. _Arya_ needs him.

“I’m going home.”


	5. when were you going to tell me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon discovers Arya is pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Rosie here on AO3 and jlawfroot on tumblr, who both requested prompt 27: when were you going to tell me that you're pregnant?
> 
> More ASOIAF 'verse. Age up the characters obviously; I always assume a five year gap in the timeline happened. Also, this would be before Jon's parentage reveal. I think that should cover it in terms of situating you. 
> 
> Heavy angst ahead.

Her fingers dig into his flesh further with every thrust, and surely her nails will draw blood from his thigh before they are through. The tent smells of sex, thick and heady. His grip on her hips is bruising, but she welcomes it, encourages it.

Arya will not let him treat her like a noble lady whose husband is only there to do his duty. Though her mother had tried to groom her for such a life, the ladies of Braavos had taught her much and more of love. She _wants_ and _lusts_ and _yearns_ for his touch; he has spent too long afield, away from her and their bed. Arya thinks to remind him why they should not be parted. With her lips, with her breasts, with her cunt. Without him, she burns hot. She needs him to temper her, to quash the flames licking her from the inside.

Each time he enters her, she answers with _Jon_ whether as a gasp or a low moan. It’s as sweet as a maiden’s song, a melody that brings his mouth to her shoulders. He presses frantic kisses there and whispers his love against her sweat-slicked skin. If asked, he will take his teeth to her flesh, marking her in pain. But it is sweet too because they are pack, and Arya long ago never thought to see him again.

“Arya,” he moans as she twists her hips. “Arya, I—“

She shakes her head, her dark hair falling over her face. “Not yet.”

She feels it coming, the way she twitches around him telling it true. He has brought her to pleasure twice tonight, her generous king. And he will again before he finds it himself. His fingers fumble around her hip, trembling for want of release. He slips between her folds, seeking out those places that drive her half-mad. Though it takes him a moment, he finds her, and Arya sucks in a breath, her thighs quaking. She feels it cut through her belly—a feather-light sensation, almost a tickle, that sends her body to breath-taking spams.

Arya buries her face in the pillow, moaning loudly into the fabrics so that they might not draw unwanted attention. As she fights to hold onto the lingering sensations pooling between her thighs, Jon pushes into her with little grace. Arya smiles, a smile that only grows wider when she hears his gasp and feels him spilling his seed inside her.

As he comes back to himself, Jon withdraws from her, kissing her thrice on her back before lying at her side on his camp bed. His eyes shut slowly and breaths even out; he has found contentment. Usually, she curls up against him, burying them beneath furs for a few hours’ sleep before she must steal away into the night back to her chambers. Though the men might think little of her sharing Jon’s tent for her own safety in the camp this night, Arya cannot rest. Jon tries to pull her to him, but Arya quickly escapes his arms.

She stands, naked as her nameday, and takes a few steps to the flagon of wine still left from supper. It’s only after she’s drained half her glass that she turns back to Jon, watching him watch her with a wide-eyed curiosity.

“When were you going to tell me?” he asks, his voice rough.

Arya follows his line of sight back to her body, to her middle that has begun to softly curve outward since the last moon. She brings her hands there, shielding or cradling she cannot say.

She has not been _able_ to say her will since her moon’s blood stopped several turns ago after Jon had last left Winterfell to treat with Southron lords. In that time she has both tried to acknowledge it and ignore it, neither quite satisfying her. And her silence does not seem to satisfy _Jon_ , she realizes, as he sits up in their bed, his eyes filled with worry.

“I had not planned to,” she admits. “Not yet. I haven’t decided…”

“Arya.”

It’s sounds half an admonishment. The other half she cannot quite place. Pity, perhaps. Or disappointment. She knows she must decide soon. Her belly continues to swell as she thinks of the choices to be made, and soon the decision will be made for her as she takes to the birthing bed. Though torn, Arya knows it must not come to that.

She chances a look at his face, to see if she should truly be ashamed. His expression is soft— _kind_. He does not hate her then. He does not want her to put on her clothes and leave his tent. And any doubt Arya may have had is removed when he reaches for her.

Arya allows him to pull her to him as if she were a doll. She stands before him, feeling more exposed than ever as he tries to look at her, only for his eyes to drop to her belly. His proximity makes her skin prickly as if under the midday sun, and there is a twinge between her legs again. In her new condition, she finds herself burning hot at the thought of Jon, as if she carries a fire in her womb instead of a babe.

When his fingertips find her skin, Arya _wants_ again. Judging from his looks now—some fear, some reverence—she does not think she can sit in his lap and end this conversation for better things. He will want to discuss this, whatever there is _to_ discuss. For all that she thinks there may be options, deep within her Arya knows better. She knows in truth that this only ends with her squatting and bleeding alone in some forest, a bitter taste lingering on her tongue.

Jon allows himself to splay his hand across her belly, pausing and searing her, before withdrawing.

“We _can’t_ —“

“I know,” she says.

Arya settles next to him, her own hands finding her middle. Perhaps for the first time—fool that she is, _now_ of all times—she allows herself to feel like any woman might in her position. Maybe it is safer now—now that she knows what must be done—to allow herself to properly feel what’s happening, to her swelling breasts and newly stretching skin. To the roundness of her middle. To her womb filled with Jon’s growing babe. _Her_ babe. _Hers_ and _Jon’s._

In another life perhaps this changing body of hers would not be so bad. She could bear it, she thinks, for a little one with the looks of the North. For the weighty-feel of a babe mewling in her arms for her breast. It is a strange thought—her as a mother. Once, at a crossroads long ago, it might have been a happy strangeness. But she is on another path now, and motherhood ill suits her, she is certain.

“I will not have a bastard, Arya,” Jon says, though it clearly pains him. “I _can’t_.”

Despite knowing better, Arya thinks of a little boy with dark curls and gray eyes, his cheeks chubby and sweet. Or a girl, swaddled in furs and sleeping soundly in her father’s arms. It is not the first time she has thought of them. Long ago, as a little girl herself, she knew she would be made to marry and have children. Back then she had thought, _I will have Jon’s children_. Everyone had told her it was impossible, that brothers and sisters don’t wed or have children. Arya had not understood then why it couldn’t be so. In her heart, she is not so certain she understands any better now.

“It would not live as you did. You are a king. It’s in your power to legitimize bastard children.”

The words slip past her lips intentionally, as if she must hear them voiced herself to know them false. Of course Jon had the power to do so if he wished, but there was so much more to it than that. There was Winter, and war, and the dead walking Beyond the Wall. Jon fights on valiantly, but they both know that man is poorly equipped to defeat the undead. Though she carries within her the heir to the North, a prince or princess of Winterfell, it would only be an heir to ruin.

“This is not any bastard. We are _brother_ and _sister_ ,” he answers her.

Arya’s head swims with thoughts of _Targaryens_ and _Lannisters_ , of families who have thought themselves above the laws of nature. Though her stomach churns violently, Arya for a moment admires the strength it must have taken to remain steadfast in love and find comfort when others looked on with disgust.  But she and Jon are _different_. They are _Starks_. _Winter is Coming_ —is _here_. They _cannot_ give into desire so easily when her father’s people depend on them both if they are all to survive this. Robb had, and he had paid the greatest price.

Reaching out, she takes his hand into her own, meeting his gaze. His eyes are filled with worry, with fear, with want. Despite explaining why she cannot go through with this pregnancy, Arya can tell he’s found no joy in such a position. Since she was old enough to understand, Arya has known that Jon wants to _belong_. His childhood had been a lonely one despite having five siblings. Together, she and he, they had found something akin to their own pack; they belonged to one another. In another life perhaps, they could have looked upon her growing belly with happiness.

But, she knows, so deeply that it terrifies her, not in this one.

“I’ll see to it. On the morrow.”

Jon’s sigh is not one of relief. Perhaps because she’s had more time with this, Arya feels an empty sort of resignation. But _Jon_. His eyes tell tales of one and a hundred emotions brewing in light of this decision. He brings his warm hand to her jaw, his thumb stroking her cheek tenderly.

“I’m _sorry_ , Arya.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be stupid.”

But sometimes Jon can be so very stupid. He’s a fool to lie back in their bed, to pull her to him so that she’s nestled against him, back to front. He buries his nose in her hair, breathing deeply, and Arya finds some sort of peace in that. But then he does something _very_ foolish, so foolish that she wants to bite her lip in sadness or in fury. He places his hand against her belly, rubbing soft circles into her skin. And perhaps she could have survived that still had he not begun to hum a lullaby from their childhood against her skin.

 _I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hair_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Err, so yeah, I'm sorry! Maybe we can call this version 1.0, and I can write a happier version of this? Hehe... ><
> 
> Also, yes I know the official lyrics to "Seasons of My Love" from ASOIAF is "I loved a maid as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair," but fuck me if Leonard Snow's version isn't perfect: 
> 
> I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunrise in her hair  
> There lived no other in the world could in my heart compare  
> Her eyes were stars of midnight bliss, her laugh a meadow breeze  
> I would have done all that she asked, so quick was I to please
> 
> I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair  
> Embraced in velvet lullabies, such sweetness did we share  
> We were all we ever had but we were wild and free  
> And in the lands you would not find a soul as lark as me
> 
> I loved a maid as white as winter, with snowflakes in her hair  
> The seasons of our love had both a beauty and despair  
> Two hearts that beat as one were we, our song was meant to be  
> And in the skies you would not find a dove as spry as she
> 
> I loved a maid as bright as spring, with blossoms in her hair  
> I loved her fierce, I loved her true, we were doomed; we did not care  
> The hands of time would take from me, even she was not to spare  
> In the whispers of my dreams, I still see my maiden fair

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all are always welcome to drop me a prompt in the comments or over at my tumblr: museme87. I'm Jonrya trash for life. I promise to get around to filling each of them as the muse strikes!
> 
> Please subscribe to the work for updates as I add ficlets.


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